


No Excuses

by trilliath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Consent Porn, Drunk Shenanigans, M/M, North American Pack Council Bonding Fun Times, With Bonfires, and drinking games, and handsy drunk Derek, and sober Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/pseuds/trilliath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tries to keep an eye on everyone, really he does, but they don't make it easy. Being the lone human at a party full of supernaturals means Stiles is the only one not drinking - not that "drinking" properly encompasses everything happening at this insane bonfire party. And even then he's not too sure, but at Peter's horrible (why do they even let him come?) example the Beacon Hills extended pack seems to be more than happy to 'try first, ask questions later' tonight.</p><p> <br/>(a.k.a. an excuse to get Derek drunk.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Excuses

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [No Excuses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283662) by [ShallICompareThee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShallICompareThee/pseuds/ShallICompareThee)



He tries to keep an eye on everyone, really he does, but they don't make it easy. Being the lone human at a party full of supernaturals means he's the only one not drinking - not that "drinking" properly encompasses everything happening at this insane bonfire party. There are way too many herbs of unknown origin and function floating around for him to keep track of, and most of them are pretty fucking toxic if you're not a werewolf. And even then he's not too sure, but at Peter's horrible (why do they even let him come?) example the Beacon Hills extended pack seems to be more than happy to 'try first, ask questions later' tonight.

After all, as Scott had assured him, the Greater North-American Pack Council strong-armed them (with promises of inter-pack rapport building and regional stability and death-threat-sanctions and all that) into coming to the regional meeting for a reason. Deaton had assured them that it was legitimately a fun, truce-enforced environment and absolutely worth their time. Peter had talked about it like it was the wildest party they'd ever go to and after that there was no avoiding the whole Beacon Hills crew making the trip north.

The night had started off with a bang, with all the Alphas and senior beta wolves getting together around the biggest bonfire and passing around a bottle filled with some unknown (but clearly vile and volatile given the hilarious facial expressions) substance. 

The bottle had made round after round, till wolves had started dropping out on some unknown rule, leaving fewer and fewer people in the circle like some strange game of hot potato that had all the packs shouting like spectators at a fist-fight. At one point he asks Erica if she understands what's going on and she laughs and points to her ear, which doesn't make any sense and he gives up trying to understand, especially when he realizes it's down to just Derek and Scott left with the bottle, each taking a swig and passing it back and forth to the chanting cheers of the other wolves. 

For a moment Stiles feels a frission of concern about what's happening, but Scott's wide grin is telling him that it's alright.

"Jeez, Derek, relax a little would you?" Scott teases, loud enough to be heard over the noise as he takes another swig. "Tonight's supposed to be about making friends, not a competition for who can have the grumpiest face."

Derek glares at Scott, who just looks smug, knowing full well Derek has to play nice. Jeers and good-natured laughter join in with Scott's taunt, urging Derek to cut loose.

Derek takes the bottle back. Abruptly, he smirks, some mischief lighting up behind his eyes. Derek glances over to where Stiles is standing with the Betas and cocks an eyebrow. Stiles has to bite his lip to keep from grinning and Scott's smug look falters as Derek brings the bottle to his lips again. He tips his head back and swallows, and _keeps_ swallowing. The wolves break into an uproarious, thrilled noise as Derek chugs the last of the bottle in one go. 

When the last drop is gone he tosses it aside to shatter in the fire and the crowd roars. Scott cheers with them, grinning happily and slapping a hearty palm to Derek's shoulder as the crowd surges closer in celebration of the close of the kickoff ritual.

"That's _my_ Alpha," Erica shouts, grinning as the party commences in earnest. 

Anyway, after that they all got really drunk and Stiles is having a hell of a time keeping track of them. Two hours in and he's exhausted just trying to keep an eye on everyone. Peter slipped his watch after about three seconds, which is completely unsurprising but also still really annoying and creepy. Lydia is frequently visible, though she's more often than not surrounded by handsome wolves ready to make her acquaintance. Scott is impossible to follow, he's so exuberant. Stiles tries anyway for a while but when Scott is intoxicated enough to forget Stiles is human and starts cajoling him to do shots with him, Stiles decides to back off. Eventually he ends up just sprawled on the ground leaning back against one of the logs arranged around the fire, just watching everything. As it is he barely notices in time to see when Derek starts wandering off into the woods for no apparent reason other than the smug look left on Cora's face after she says something to her brother.

Stiles makes a questioning gesture at her and the look she turns on him is a strange blend of smug and false innocence, at least until she bursts into giggles and then dashes away to go tackle Erica.

When Derek doesn't come back or reappear near any of the other bunches of socializing werewolves, Stiles swears under his breath and follows after him away from the campfire lights. If it weren't for the fact that he knows there's a river somewhere nearby and a ravine in the other direction, he might not bother, but he kindof really doesn't actually want Derek to end up dead or gravely injured. So he dusts himself off and fumbles his way into the dark forest.

Fortunately the moonlight is bright and Derek hasn't really gone that far. It only takes a couple minutes to find him.

"Hey Derek, how you doin'?" Stiles asks as he catches up to the werewolf.

Derek glances at him when Stiles puts a hand on his shoulder and he turns slightly to face him. He squints at Stiles for a moment that stretches long enough for Stiles to set his teeth against the inevitable message from the annoying and irrepressible part of his brain that eagerly points out that he's more or less alone on a moonlit night within kissing distance of Derek Hale. 

"You okay? You, uh-" Stiles swallows down a noise as Derek starts leaning forward even further into his space. His head tilts in a way Stiles has come to recognize as the instinctual scenting the air of wolves. Then, to Stiles's dismay, Derek leans even closer and Stiles has to seriously remind himself that intoxicated!Derek means nonconsenting!Derek, lest he turn his head and take advantage of the proximity. But Derek catches himself and straightens away again. His face goes a funny shade of stricken and then he turns and starts marching away again.

"Go away," Derek says, voice tight with exasperation.

Stiles sighs and hops after him, stumbling through the underbrush without the benefit of enhanced vision. And then there was the other reason not to try kissing Derek; the whole _Go Away Stiles_ nature of Derek's general attitude towards him. 

Derek slows to pat the bark of a large tree in his path before carefully navigating around it and Stiles grimaces when he wobbles.

"Hey big guy, why don't you sit down for a minute, huh?"

Derek pauses to consider the point, swaying back towards Stiles with the person-centered momentum of a drunk. Stiles reaches up to steady him and Derek stares wide-eyed at him for a moment before his eyes skitter away in embarrassment. "I'm _fine_ Stiles," Derek insists, shaking off Stiles's hand on his shoulder and marching resolutely in the other direction. 

"Uh yeah, no you're not," Stiles says, scrambling after him. "I mean, I get it, big strong Alpha. But dude you have had a _lot_ to drink. Where are you even going?"

Derek ignores him for a moment, keeping up his annoyed face and long strides. But then he starts to slow down, confusion spreading over his features. Eventually he stops, glancing around at the woods in confusion. 

"The… my room."

The last word comes out sounding almost like a question, and Stiles eyes him warily, moving closer again now that he's stopped. 

"Okay. That's cool I guess. But, uh, you do know that the hotel is back that way, right?" he asks, pointing back the way they'd come and off to one side.

Derek squints through the trees the way Stiles is pointing, then glances up at the turgid but not-quite-full moon he'd been marching towards. He snorts what almost sounds like a laugh. Stiles stares in amazement as Derek does laugh then, light and ridiculous, staring up at the canopy and the stars overhead in the clear night sky. Stiles chuckles with him but it just serves to bring Derek back to himself, who glares at Stiles and stomps off in another direction altogether.

"Where are you going now?" Stiles calls after him.

"Back to the party," Derek snaps, as he disappears deeper into the woods.

Stiles swears, then scrambles after him. "It's the other way!" he shouts and promptly trips over a tree root. And he's not even drunk. Ugh.

It earns him another glare, but soon Derek is actually heading back towards the dull glow of bonfires and the raucous calls of what is turning out to be quite possibly the most uproarious party Stiles has ever seen.

Fucking _Werewolves_ , man.

 

He really, _really_ hates Erica a lot.

"I hate you. So much," he contends, jabbing a finger in her general direction. Mostly. Stupid drink.

"No. You _lurve_ me," she says and purrs a laugh, letting go of Boyd long enough to stumble closer and playfully nip at his extended finger with too-long teeth.

He shoves her head away with a giddy laugh and shouts, "Shut up I love you."

"Yeah you do," she agrees, voice loud and happy and relaxed. 

Which he totally does. Except for the whole spiking his drink thing. At least she'd chosen something that wasn't poisonous.

"Is it like, not possible for werewolves to keep their shirts on for more than three hours at a time?" he asks, to which question Erica proudly shimmies her shoulders, putting her lovely bra and its otherwise bare occupants on display as if that's a legitimate answer before they both dissolve into helpless laughter.

Stiles was _supposed_ to be responsible tonight. It's his job to keep everyone safe tonight and now he has no idea where Scott or Derek are and it is also slightly difficult to stop giggling at, well, everything. 

Not that everything isn't kindof hilarious. Like the way Peter looks extremely uncomfortable at the female Beta sitting in his lap and rambling about anything and everything. Or when Cora and a young werewolf with dark skin and flashing golden eyes bolt across the clearing with a half-naked Scott hard on their heels. They're all yelling and laughing wildly as Scott jovially chases them around the clearing. Two more wolves join the chase and Stiles can't seem to stop laughing when Scott skids in the dirt and ends up on his ass before chasing them back out into the woods again. 

But really, he's just glad that he can see most of the pack is alive and well and he doesn't need to worry so much.

Very alive and well, given the way Boyd is swinging Erica back into his arms and kissing her like there's no tomorrow.

Stiles realizes he's been staring awkwardly at them for about ten times longer than is even remotely appropriate when Boyd lifts his head and Erica twists in his arms, distracted by raucous shouts coming from the other side of the bonfire and cheering and Stiles can just make out two of the Alphas having an arm wrestling match; one from one of the Mexican packs, and the other he thinks is from Canada. Maybe Washington? Whatever. 

He turns around to go find somewhere to sit down. Or some food that isn't drugged. But he stops short when he turns, catching sight of Derek's gaze on him from where the Alpha is sitting at the outskirts of the main fire on a upturned stump of a log, watching the proceedings.

His facial expression is soft, unguarded. Almost content looking, even, watching his Betas and Stiles kind-of wants to pet his face right then. But Derek's eyes meet Stiles's, noticing his regard, and the shutters slam down. The familiar dour glower returns before Stiles can even drunkenly smile back, let alone make a very ill-advised advance on the Alpha. Derek stands away from the log to disappear into the outskirts of the crowd again. Erica and Boyd have gone to join the spectators and because it's clearly awesome Stiles gives up and follows them.

 

Some time much later, after watching several arm-wrestling matches and a very insane game of never-have-i-ever, Stiles is no longer intoxicated, but he is still feeling pretty good. It's been a good party all around, though things seem to be winding down, and without incident - at least anything that hadn't been easily healed by magic werewolf powers. He's even made some new friends. Probably. Assuming any of them remember any of the conversations in the morning. It's a start at least.

He's just about stopped worrying for everyone's safety when someone steps into his path with a lifted finger. She sniffs him, which he's almost used to, then smiles.

"Your Alpha," the wolves murmurs with a spanish accent. Whatever she's been imbibing has her dark brown irises nearly obscured by her dilated pupils and her speech slurring slightly. "Gone to the hotel. Too much to drink, he say."

"Which one?" Stiles asks, frowning in concern. "Scott or Derek?"

She turns a pitying pout on him, reaching up to bump a knuckle under his chin as she says, sadly, "Oh Cuchuras."

"What?"

She just winks at him as she tilts her head and brushes her sleek caramel hair back over one shoulder, eyes drifting past him.

"Qué?" he tries hopefully.

She laughs and pats his cheek as she walks away, clearly more interested in the werewolf over by the fire who is making eyes at her.

He grumbles under his breath about it as he starts to look around, searching out his pack. Many of the various werewolves have started heading towards the group of tents erected nearby, or further back towards the hotel. He's pretty sure Scott and Isaac are still out in the woods somewhere, playing a game of tag that is most likely going to end in some stuff Stiles really doesn't want to think too much about. So that leaves Derek.

It makes sense. Derek had already tried to go to the hotel back when things were just getting started. Now that things are winding down into that stage where everyone's too tired to keep it up it's even more likely that he'd have gone back towards some familiar territory.

So Stiles makes the solo trek down the narrow dirt path back to the hotel, which is really a batch of cabins more than anything. A fitting place for a werewolf conference, out in the northern California wilderness. It's actually kindof perfect and Stiles realizes that all his worrying aside, he's really glad they came.

For the moment, anyway. The door to Derek's cabin is ajar, which could be either a good sign or a really bad one. Either way, Stiles takes a deep breath and then strides into the room.

Derek's there.

Derek's _naked_.

Fucking _werewolves_.

Stiles shuts the door behind him, drawing Derek's attention away from the gas fireplace that he's curled in front of. But instead of the melancholy Stiles had been half expecting, Derek's expression is soft.

"Stiles!" Derek says, looking up at him with an open, pleased smile. 

"Oh my god you're smiling," Stiles blurts, staring down at him.

"Yeah," Derek muses fondly, fingers reaching up to pat the edge of his curved lips. His eyelids are a little heavy though, making a blindingly stunning smile not just attractive but sexy as fuck. Arousal spikes wildly in Stiles's belly when Derek looks back up at Stiles and says, "You're here."

Stiles opens his mouth to reply and then thinks the better of it because Derek is stumbling to his feet and moving in his direction and no he is TOTALLY BEING A GENTLEMAN HERE NOT LOOKING SOUTH.

"Whoa, hey there big guy," Stiles says as he reaches out to steady Derek as the man wobbles precariously and then fumbles right into Stiles's body, leaning his not-inconsiderable frame against him.

"Stiles," Derek says again, voice warm, almost like a caress as he says his name. "You came."

Stiles sighs, patting Derek's bare shoulders fondly as he says, "Of course I did."

He makes a pleased sound, hugging Stiles harder, broad hands skimming along Stiles's back and sides in a way that isn't exactly just drunk affection.

"You always come for me," Derek says softly, voice low and rough. 

"Yep," Stiles squeaks, stiffening under the touch and trying to ignore the double-entendre and the warm wall of Derek pressed against him.

Derek loosens his hold, straightening carefully to look at Stiles's face. His eyes narrow on Stiles's and he reaches up to pat Stiles's mouth. "You're not drunk."

"Nope," Stiles agrees, quirking a sardonic look at him. "You're drunk enough for both of us right now."

Derek snorts and makes a dissenting noise. "You should be drunk. It's fun."

Stiles can't help but laugh incredulously. "Did you seriously just tell me… yeah, because _I'm_ the one who needs more fun." 

Derek scowls at him but it's adorable instead of menacing because his eyes are still crinkled with the smile he can't seem to hide and his lips are too turned up at the corners to be a proper Derek Hale Frown™. He gives up on it a moment later anyway, smile spreading mischievously as he shoves gently at Stiles's shoulder.

"You should be drunk _with me_ ," Derek contends, eyes silvery in the dim light as they shift back up to Stiles's.

Stiles laughs awkwardly, sounding slightly hysterical as Derek's fingers knead gently at his shoulder. "As much as I would love that, I can barely handle this sober," Stiles mutters, trying not to pay attention to the part of his brain that's providing him oh-so-unhelpfully with constant reminders of the naked status of Derek's body and mental images of drunk makeouts on the rug beneath their feet.

Derek makes another sound of dissent, fingers curling loosely against the collar of Stiles's shirt as he tilts his head, taking a deep scenting breath of the air between them, eyes lowering to Stiles's mouth. 

Stiles snaps his eyes away and heaves a sigh, makes himself lift a hand to Derek's wrist with the intention of disengaging for the sake of being a decent fucking person. But his potential victim is apparently not so on-board with that plan. Derek's hand tightens on his shoulder and Stiles's heart skips a beat in a moment of panic when Derek starts moving forward, his greater mass and strength and drunken determination easily drawing Stiles backwards the few feet until he's bumping hard against the wall.

His heart is pounding and his breath is coming short as Derek scents the air again, then bites his lower lip and eyes Stiles with dangerous contemplation. And he should really, _really_ stop this before it gets any worse and he completely runs out of moral high ground but -

Derek's smile turns wicked and he leans in. Stiles freezes and squeezes his eyes shut in anticipation of a misguided kiss. What he doesn't expect Derek's lips to land on his cheek.

The way Derek is blushing, looking at him with bright, hopeful eyes when he lifts his head has Stiles groaning internally. He wants to kiss that soft smile more than pretty much _anything_.

Except not have Derek hate him in the morning. That's worth it.

"Jesus, why do you have to be an _affectionate_ drunk? Ugh. Come on. Let's get you to bed."

"Mm, you gonna take me to bed Stilinski?" Derek murmurs, leaning close to nuzzle against Stiles's throat.

"Not what I meant," Stiles manages.

Derek ignores him, lips pressing hot and soft to the bare skin of his neck, right where his pulse is thundering in his throat. 

"I want you in my bed. You should always be in my bed," Derek says, arms sliding tight around Stiles's waist as he straightens, pulling them both away from the wall and moving towards the bedroom area.

"Whoa, hey. DEREK! No. Bad Derek," Stiles blurts, shoving ineffectually at Derek's shoulder or ribs or whatever he can reach that isn't wildly inappropriate. Which is basically nowhere.

Derek just snickers, breath warm and damp against Stiles's neck as he presses Stiles backwards, arms firm around Stiles's torso and hips tight to his, guiding his motion. Rough fingers skim up under Stiles's tee shirt and drag it upwards. 

"Derek, no. _More clothes_ , not less," he pleads. "As much as I would enjoy this, and _wow_ would I enjoy this so hard if you actually liked me, you are not even close to sober."

His words get another laugh, like he's being funny, or like Derek's just happy. The sound Derek makes when he hauls Stiles's shirt over his head has Stiles's knees threatening to buckle in want, which Derek apparently decides means that the bed is their next priority. He doesn't have far to go in the small cabin to reach the big sleigh bed. He drags Stiles effortlessly onto his mattress with its plush down comforter, sliding them together along the diagonal.

Stiles makes a sound of utter frustration because yeah. _There is only so much he can take_ and Derek's naked body sliding against his, pressing him down on the bed is pretty much right at the limit of his capacity to be a good person.

"You're so soft," Derek says softly, nose rubbing slowly against Stiles's jaw, clearly somehow ignoring Stiles's elbows and sharp knees and oh yeah how he's still wearing shoes.

"Not really," Stiles manages, trying to ignore how very true that is in certain _regions_.

Derek hums in amusement and just nuzzles him some more, hands starting to roam in directions that have Stiles squeezing his eyes shut and gathering the willpower to say a more emphatic no to taking advantage of Derek's affectionate state - and is that his zipper?

It proves moot, however, because Derek's hands still on their own, tangled in Stiles's waistband. The kisses to his neck subside a moment after, and then Stiles is left with nothing but a very heavy werewolf blanket.

"Derek?" Stiles says after a while.

But all he gets in response is the sound of steady breathing against his ear.

"Fuck," he mutters. His voice sounds excruciatingly fond, even to his own ears, and he sighs, tilting his head to press a kiss of his own to the man's temple. He is so completely and totally fucked.

Derek is most definitely out for the count, and heavy enough that Stiles eventually squirms enough so that he's not bearing the _entirety_ of Derek's weight. But there's no breaking free of his hold altogether because those arms around his waist are definitely not budging. At least he gets a pillow under his head. Sortof mostly. And he toes off his shoes, glad he didn't wear boots tonight despite the hiking around in the woods. 

He ends up with Derek pressed against his side, head resting over Stiles's heart, and blankets awkwardly pulled up around them as much as he can with his free hand. 

For a while he stays stiff, trying to ignore the situation. Eventually, though, Stiles reminds himself that there's only so far he can control his own reactions and lets himself savor the warmth of the physical contact, the whisper of Derek's breath over his skin. And because it's the only chance he may ever get, he allows himself the relatively benign pleasure of running his fingers through Derek's hair until he falls asleep.

 

Several hours later, with the early morning light spilling in through the quaint lace curtains, Stiles wakes up to the slightly painful sensation of being shoved hard sideways and cracking his head lightly against the headboard.

"Wha?" he says, face muffled by a pillow.

There's a loud thump behind him and he twists amid the tangle of blankets to get his head up. The bed is empty beside him and for a sleep-addled moment his brain does not compute.

"No," he hears Derek say emphatically.

He pushes himself up far enough that he can see Derek sitting on the ground, staring at his nudity with wide eyes. His gaze shifts up, landing on Stiles's bare chest.

"Stiles," he whispers, looking sick.

Stiles heaves a sigh. "It's fine. Don't worry. Nothing really happened," he says, trying not to sound sullen at that fact. Or show his disappointment at the clear dismay in Derek's face. Or ogle Derek again.

God he sucks at this nobility crap.

He sits back on the bed, removing Derek from his sight, and scrubs a palm over his gritty eyes as he slides down to the other side and rises. His disheveled jeans get re-fastened and his shoes plucked off the floor in a few efficient motions. He doesn't look at Derek again as he walks back out to the foyer to retrieve his shirt, nor does he turn back as he leans a hand against the wall to balance while he shoves his feet back into his sneakers. Once his clothes are more or less back in order he lets himself out of the cabin without another word. He doesn't think his heart can take anything else.

 

He skips out on the pack functions in the morning, too busy feeling sorry for himself. Instead he wanders the footpaths on the outskirts of the camp and eventually settles down near the smoldering remains of last night's bonfire, idly chipping away at charred bits of wood with his pocket knife.

It's quiet save for the sound of nature and it's nice after the last few days of intense socialization. Scott doesn't hide his approach, making plenty of incidental noise to announce his presence. Stiles glances at him and then goes back to stabbing at the stick he's holding.

"Hey," Scott says, setting down a plate of food on the log in front of Stiles. Like some sort of peace offering.

"Hey," he says back, offering a smile for his best friend that he knows is extremely pathetic in its attempt to be normal. 

"You okay?" Scott asks cautiously.

Stiles thinks about answering flippantly, then sighs, tossing the stick aside. "Not really. But I don't want to talk about it."

Scott sits down across from him and for a moment, Stiles thinks Scott's going to let it be, but then Scott clears his throat and says, "Yeah but we kindof have to. Derek said-"

"I don't care what Derek said," he snaps. "I didn't want it to go down the way it did. I did the best I could, okay? It's not like I have enough physical strength to _make_ him stop dragging me into his bed. No werewolf powers here, remember?" he says with a disgusted splay of fingers at himself. 

Not that he's entirely sure he would have used werewolf powers if he'd had them. He hopes he would have. It's not like he doesn't _know_. Derek hadn't ever put it in so many words, but Kate… anyway. He knows. He plucks a biscuit off the plate and tears it open, picking at the still-warm insides before he manages to gather enough guts to look over at his friend's face.

"I tried. What more do you want from me?" he demands, humiliated at Scott's stricken look.

Scott shakes his head slowly, staring at the log between them. "I'm gonna kill him," Scott says hollowly, fingers curling into fists, then splaying out into claws.

"Wait, what?"

"Being drunk is _not_ an excuse," Scott says, a low growl forming in the back of his voice.

"Scott. _Scott,_ it's not what you think," Stiles says, suddenly catching up to Scott's thought process. "It's okay. Nothing _happened_." 

He grabs at Scott's wrist, but Scott's eyes flash red and then he's gripping Stiles's arm, pulling him close and sucking in the scent of him in quick huffs.

"His scent is all over you," Scott contends.

"Of course it is," Stiles says, rolling his eyes as Scott pats him down, searching for injuries. "He fell asleep on top of me."

"But you're not hurt," Scott admits after a second, and the wolf fades from him again. "Derek thinks he hurt you."

Stiles heaves a sigh, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyesockets. "Only by drunkenly dangling himself in front of me so hard I think I sprained something trying not to take advantage of him. If anything I owe him an apology for not managing to actually leave."

"Oh my god Lydia's right," Scott says, groaning as he flops back down on the log and stuffs a piece of bacon in his mouth.

"Of course she is," Stiles says mordantly. "What is she right about this time?"

"You two dumbasses don't know you're in love with each other," Scott says around the bacon, sounding almost petulant.

"Yeah, right," Stiles says with a snort, trying to ignore how pathetically wistful he sounds, taking another piece of bacon. "I'm pretty sure last night was the first time he's ever smiled at me and that was only because he was fucking _wasted_."

Scott groans. "Dude, why didn't you tell me you liked him? I owe Lydia like fifty bucks now. And you, my best friend."

Stiles laughs, "Sorry bro, but you really should know better than to bet against Lyds, no matter what."

But then Stiles pauses, mouth full of bacon as he follows his own logic. "Wait."

Scott groans again. He leans over and plants his face against Stiles's shoulder and grips his upper arm and knee firmly, like he's bracing himself.

"So. Only because you are my brother and I love you am I going to do this so please, don't make me say it again."

"Uh. Okay," Stiles says, awkwardly patting Scott's fluffy hair with a mostly-not-greasy hand.

"Listening? Okay. Here it is: Derek _totally wants_ you."

"But-"

"No but. Fact. End of story. Okay? Don't make me go breaking werewolf bro-code to explain how I know this."

"Like-"

"Like, I don't know. Not just sex. Like kisses and rainbows and puppies and benefits and everything, dude. When you're not looking, he looks at you like… what was it Allison said? Like you hung the moon. He wants the whole Stiles package."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

" _Oh_ ," Stiles says, sliding down till he's on the ground and grinning up at the sky. "Derek wants the Stiles."

"Dude, seriously?" Scott whines, though he's not really even trying to disguise the smile in his voice.

 

 

Derek looks up when the door bangs open, surprise first crossing his face as he jumps to his feet. Concern floods his features that gets quickly followed by guilt and resignation. His eyes drop to his bare toes on the rug in front of the fireplace, though this time he's wearing clothes. 

"First things first. Are you drunk right now?" Stiles demands, fingers splayed in a call for attention.

Derek's eyebrows fly together as he looks up in confusion.

"Are you drunk?" Stiles asks again, hand on the door as he awaits his answer.

Derek's shoulders drop and he lifts his head, eyes sad as he steels himself for whatever he thinks Stiles is bringing his way. "No," he says calmly.

"Not intoxicated or cognitively compromised in any way?" Stiles prods.

"No," Derek says again, hands limp at his sides.

"Good," Stiles says and kicks the door shut behind him before marching across the room.

Derek lowers his eyes as if anticipating a blow and Stiles hates that except he is kindof relieved at the fact that Derek isn't looking at him as he throws his arms around Derek's neck and plants his lips right on that firm, sorrowful mouth.

He gives it everything, all his years of repressed need and hope and affections, pressing his body tight to Derek's. And for one, long, awful moment, Derek is stiff as a board, lips parted in surprise but immobile against the onslaught of Stiles. 

And then everything changes. Derek is moving, muscle shifting as his arms curl around Stiles in return, pulling him impossibly closer as his tongue plunges into Stiles's mouth. His hand runs up the column of Stiles's spine to cradle his neck as Stiles's fingers fist in his hair and then by unspoken accord, they are both of them stumbling towards the bedroom.

"Wait," Derek asks, halting them abruptly and lifting his head to look at Stiles. "Are _you_ drunk?"

Stiles laughs, grabbing Derek's face between his hands and looking Derek squarely in the eye. 

"No," Stiles says, grinning. "Not even a _little_ ," he adds triumphantly, and kisses Derek again with everything he's got.


End file.
